


the pathless woods

by voidfins



Series: light of day [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, because why not, look we all have bad days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 13:44:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17663771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidfins/pseuds/voidfins
Summary: We all have bad days. The boys have an extended one. Shameless angst that turns to fluff.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Self indulgent h/c fic (when aren't they?). I wrote all of the first 6 chapters in like a day and it took me 6 weeks to write the last one. Posting it all at once so I don't forget.

D’Artagnan was frustrated. It had been a long day—a long week. A long month—and things just kept piling up. Nothing had seemed to go right lately. The cases they had been given lately had been a mix of strange and baffling to just outright stupid and senseless. It was like all of the worst type of criminals had come crawling out of the woodwork as the summer heat waned and they headed into fall again. Reverse hibernation. The strain was showing on the others, too. Porthos, who was very rarely put out, had been grouchier. Aramis had been distracted. And Athos had been almost entirely unapproachable unless it was for work. He had been demanding perfection, and while d’Artagnan tried to give that, he was only human.  


Today had been bad. They were working on a particularly gruesome case of a husband and wife murder-suicide, and he had misfiled some essential paperwork. It wasn’t enough that he had been kicking himself over it as soon as he realized, but Athos had found out and chewed him out for a good 20 minutes about paying attention to detail for the whole floor to hear. Nevermind that he had already fixed it. It was close enough to five when that was done that he had walked out without another word. Aramis might have called after him, but he didn’t stop to see. If they weren’t going to take up for him on this, he didn’t have anything to say.  


The worst part was that he wasn’t sure that Athos was wrong. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and he knew his work was suffering for it. Objectively he knew that there would be periods like this, especially starting out, and he would get through them. But today Athos had sounded too much like his father telling him he wasn’t cut out for police life when he announced his plans to go to college and attend the RCMP academy, and old doubts were surfacing that he’d thought were gone. Maybe he wasn’t good enough after all. Maybe this had all been for nothing.  


He couldn’t go back to his apartment right now. It was too small and claustrophobic, and the chance of running into one of his neighbors and being forced to make small talk was unbearable. He didn’t want to go to the farm, either. It wasn’t like he could ride right now. The horses would sense his mood and there wouldn’t be a happy ending for anyone involved. So he just kept driving, radio off and windows down, not heading anywhere except for away from the city. The days were still warm, but as soon as the sun went down it got cold pretty quickly. He let the air rush in and cool him down. The curving back roads took some concentration to navigate in the growing dusk. He was well outside the city limits by now, somewhere on the east side of the city.  


It would be fine. It would be fine, because he would make it fine. He would go back in tomorrow and swallow his pride and apologize to Athos. Then he would just...never make a mistake again. That was his course of action. Sooner or later things would give and the cases being piled on them wouldn’t be so horrendous. He just had to make it until then. It would be—  


He came around a curve and a deer ran out from the trees and right into the road in front of him. D’Artagnan cursed and swerved to avoid it, but when he twisted the wheel he felt something snap in the steering column and it stopped responding to him jerking on it. He had just enough time to think that he should have just gone home before the truck went off the road and down the steep hill, crashing into a stand of trees. The engine died and started to click as it cooled.  


The deer ran off into the forest on the other side of the road.


	2. Chapter 2

“What the fuck was that all about?” Porthos demanded, rounding on Athos. Aramis gave them both a look and hurried out the door after d’Artagnan, who had swept past them both without a word. It wasn’t like him, to take a lecture like that without saying anything. Porthos hadn’t gotten a good look at his face as he’d walked out, but he’d seen their youngest argue people into the dirt over the smallest things if he didn’t think they were justified. He had never heard him just not respond before.  


Athos was still agitated. “How are we supposed to do our jobs effectively if he can’t even file paperwork correctly?”  


Porthos narrowed his eyes. “Is that what this is all about? He already fixed that.” He had heard d’Artagnan muttering about it earlier, but he had been putting it to rights already, so it hadn’t seemed like a big deal.  


“He should have done it right in the first place,” Athos insisted. “It shouldn’t have had to be fixed.”  


“Can you stop acting like you’ve never made a mistake before?” Porthos said. He could bring up plenty of instances that were harmless, and some not so harmless, but that would be crossing a line. “Work has been hell lately, and he’s doing the best he can. We all are. He made a mistake, yeah, and then he fixed it. What’s wrong with you?”  


Athos abruptly deflated, leaning his elbows on his desk and putting his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It feels like nothing is going right, lately.”  


“It hasn’t been. Doesn’t mean you get to take it out on him or anyone else.”  


“Fuck,” Athos said. Porthos crossed his arms. The world really was ending if d’Artagnan wasn’t saying anything and Athos was cussing at work. “How do I fix it?”  


“You act like a damn adult and apologize,” said Aramis, stepping back into the room. “But it’ll have to be tomorrow, because he’s already left. I didn’t even get a chance to say anything to him. Care to share why you’re raking our rookie over the coals so thoroughly?”  


“Because I am an idiot who apparently can’t control his temper,” Athos said, looking up. “He’s never going to forgive me for this.”  


“At least you recognize that you’re an idiot,” Aramis said. He was being falsely cheerful, but that’s how he got when tensions were high. “Otherwise we’re forced to remind you.”  


“Of course he’ll forgive you,” Porthos said. “He just needs time to cool down. Talk to him in the morning.” d’Artagnan wasn’t the type to hold grudges for long, bless him. “We all need to get our acts together, though. We can’t go on like this.” Athos and d’Artagnan weren’t the only people acting unusual. Porthos was aware that he hadn’t been himself lately, either, and so had Aramis if the guilty look on his face was anything to go by.  


“We’ll do better,” Aramis said.  


They would have to. Otherwise Porthos was going to sic Treville on all of them, himself included.


	3. Chapter 3

The problem was that d’Artagnan didn’t show up to work in the morning. He was disgustingly chipper in the mornings, something that Athos and Aramis gave him looks for whenever he was too loud. Porthos managed to be functional, but that was about it. Lately d’Artagnan had been arriving first and was already at work when Porthos got there. This morning he was nowhere to be seen. It didn’t really bother Porthos at first, not after yesterday. He was probably dragging his heels coming in. Athos hesitated when he came in, glancing towards d’Artagnan’s empty desk, but said nothing. But when he still hadn’t showed by the time Aramis shuffled in ten minutes late, Porthos was starting to become concerned.  


“Is he taking a sick day?” he asked Athos.  


“I haven’t gotten any emails,” Athos said, clicking through his inbox. “Maybe he contacted Treville instead.” There was hurt in his tone, but there was nothing to be done about it right then. Porthos went to see the captain.  


“No, I haven’t heard from d’Artagnan this morning,” said Treville, looking up from his computer. “I did hear that there was an...incident last night.”  


Porthos sighed. Of course he had. He gave Treville the rundown on what had happened.  


“It’s been a month,” Treville said, as neutral as ever. “Perhaps he overslept. Still, it’s not like him. Let me know when you’re able to get a hold of him.” He went back to his work.  


Dismissed, Porthos tried calling. It went straight to voicemail. He tried again, with the same result.  


“Any luck?” Aramis asked when he came back into the room.  


“No,” Porthos told him. “Going to voicemail.”  


“Maybe his phone died and his alarm didn’t go off. I told him he shouldn’t use his phone as an alarm clock,” Aramis suggested.  


“Maybe,” Porthos hedged. Something just felt off. Athos was sulking at his desk, but also very obviously listening. “I’m going to go check on him.”  


“We’re coming with you,” Aramis said immediately, gathering his things. Porthos looked over at Athos, but he was also standing. Apparently they were all going.  


There was no answer when they knocked on the door to d’Artagnan’s apartment. Porthos chewed on his lip for a second before pulling out a set of lock picks that he probably shouldn’t have and, after furtively glancing down the hallway to make sure no one else was in sight, went to work on the door.  


“Should we really be doing this?” Athos hissed. “It isn’t going to help matters.”  


Porthos ignored him. There was an ominous feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach. If he was wrong, d’Artagnan could just yell at them.  


The apartment was empty. It was messier than usual, with dishes in the sink and laundry on the floor in the bedroom. The trash needed to be taken out. It was still leagues ahead of how Aramis kept his. They had finally had to take turns hiring him a maid as a birthday present every year. But it only confirmed to Porthos that something was off with their rookie. His keys, wallet, and phone weren’t there. The bed wasn’t made, but it was hard to tell if that was because it had been slept in or if it had just been left that way. None of this did anything to reassure Porthos, and he could see the other two were beginning to look concerned as well.  


“Now what?” said Aramis.  


“Check the farm, I guess,” said Athos.  


“Hang on, I’ve got Chris’ phone number,” Porthos said, dialing the number for the man who ran the d’Artagnan farm day to day.  


He hadn’t been there, either. Chris hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. D’Artagnan had promised to come out soon, said it had been busy at work. That was an understatement. Porthos thanked him and hung up, now totally convinced that something was terribly wrong.  


“We need to find him,” he said. There was no argument.


	4. Chapter 4

It took d’Artagnan a long time to realize that he wasn’t blind, that there actually was a dim light. It didn’t let him make anything out but formless dark shapes, but it helped him tamp down the panic that had gripped him when he first woke up.  


What had woken him was something warm dripping into his face. It tasted like blood. As the situation—Athos, driving, the deer—came back to him, he tried to move and take stock of the situation, but soon found out that was a bad idea when moving sent stabbing pains through his head and shoulder, down to his ribs. He traced the shape of the steering wheel in front of him, cold and useless. The truck wouldn’t even catch when he tried to turn the keys, which were still in the ignition. He tried to undo the seatbelt that was so tight it was cutting into his chest, but the release was jammed and he didn’t have the coordination to get it free. It felt like the truck was angled downwards, from the way that gravity was pulling on him.  


It wasn’t like he could go anywhere, even if he could have gotten the seatbelt undone. His legs were pinned by something, and the door handle jiggled useless when he tried it. He thought it might be the dashboard, warped beyond recognition, that was keeping him trapped. There was something rough and prickly to his right. He ran his fingers over it slowly, and they came away sticky and smelling of pine. It took him way too long to realize it must be a tree branch that had come through the windshield. He had been lucky not to be impaled on it, but he was trapped and bleeding and he didn’t feel all that lucky. He couldn’t find his phone within reach. Maybe it had dropped down to the floorboard, or been thrown out of the car. Maybe it was still in his backpack. He couldn’t remember where he had left it.  


It had been maybe six when the deer ran across the road in front of him. Somewhere around then. He didn’t know exactly what time it was now, but it was full dark so at least some time had passed. The dim light must be from the moon or something, because it definitely wasn’t city lights this far out. He told himself that he just had to wait. The others would find him, sometime soon. Athos was angry with him, but he wouldn’t leave him here alone.  


He just had to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

Everyone was quietly freaking out. Athos had called Treville to inform him that they couldn’t find d’Artagnan. Now they were trying to find a way to locate him. Porthos had tried to call him a dozen more times, but it had gone directly to voicemail on each one.  


“It could be that his phone is just off,” Athos said. He was taking it very hard, sure that this was in some way his fault. He hadn’t said it, of course, but Porthos could tell.  


“Could be,” Porthos agreed. “Or it’s been damaged in some way.” Or a number of other things, each more grim than the last. He would rather just stick with it had lost its charge. It was frustrating, though, because he couldn’t track it that way. They had tried pulling up the GPS location first thing, but there was no data. No small blue dot on the map.  


Constance had somehow found out about what was going on, even though no one else but Treville was supposed to know. She had offered her help, but there really wasn’t much she could do other than wait. Aramis had been calling the hospitals to see if anyone matching d’Artagnan’s description had shown up. So far no luck, and Porthos wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed about it. He hung up again now, shaking his head.  
“That’s all of them.”  


“What about some sort of log history?” Constance asked. They looked over at her. “You don’t have current GPS signal, right?” she asked. Porthos nodded. “Is there, I don’t know, a record of where he’s been?”  


“Maybe,” Aramis said. “I’m going to get someone from IT to take a look.” He was up and out the door before anyone could say another word.  
“We’ll find him, Constance,” Porthos assured.  


“I know you will,” she said, but she didn’t sound as confident as she usually did. Her life hadn’t been the easiest lately either, he knew. She had finally filed for divorce, and her husband was not taking it well. It had gotten to the point where she was spending long hours at work just so she wouldn’t have to speak with him. They had all offered to help her move out, but she insisted that she was going to hire a moving company so that none of her coworkers would have to deal with her husband. It had been a long time coming, as far as Porthos was concerned, but he thought that d’Artagnan had been instrumental in her making up her mind. They definitely had chemistry.  


Aramis burst back into the room with a sheet of printer paper clutched in his hand. “I don’t know if this is helpful,” he said. “The last pings cut off somewhere in the backroads east of the city. Maybe when his battery died.”  


“Somewhere to start, anyway,” Athos said.


	6. Chapter 6

The coordinates led them literally to nowhere. Porthos was driving while Athos kept an eye on their location on his phone.  


“Almost there...and we’ve passed it,” Athos said, glancing up. Porthos made a frustrated sound. A little warning would have been nice, but there had been nothing of note. It was just a road. Still, he made sure no one was coming and turned the car around, careful not to let it back off the steep drop and went back to where Athos directed him. He put the hazards on and pulled as far off to the side of the road as possible. On the left it was flat enough that he could get half off the road. Hopefully if anyone came along they would just go around.  


On first glance there was nothing. Porthos wondered if it had just been the last ping before d’Artagnan’s phone had died and nothing more. They would have to try something else. He barely had cell service here himself.  


“Look,” said Aramis, kneeling down. “Skid marks.” They started right after the curve and veered sharply to the right, off the road. Porthos was moving before he had even finished processing the thought. He scrambled to the edge of the road and looked down. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe they were old, from something else. Someone else.  


No, there was a familiar blue pickup maybe fifty yards down the hill, resting against a stand of trees.  


“Athos,” he yelled. It was unnecessary, the other two were right behind him. He scrambled down the steep incline, using trees as leverage to keep himself from just tumbling down. It was going to be a bitch to get back up. Athos and Aramis came crashing through the underbrush after him.  


He couldn’t get directly to the driver side door because it was blocked by a tree, so he swung around it. His heart caught in his throat. They had found d’Artagnan, but there was terror thrumming through him because his head was resting on his chest, hair obscuring his face. He could see blood, but not much else.  


“Go around the other side,” he called to Aramis. “Can’t get the door open over here.” He could barely even reach the door because he was standing slightly below it on the slope. He grabbed onto the offending tree and used it to pull himself up, testing the running board with one foot until he was sure it would hold his weight. Now he cold reach. The window was already down, so he wouldn’t have to break it. He reached out a hand that was trembling more than he liked to brush aside d’Artagnan’s long hair and check his pulse, letting out an explosive breath when it was there. Not as steady as it should be, but there.  


Aramis had managed to get in the other side of the cab. Now he scrambled under the tree branch that had gone through the windshield, heedless of the pine needles that were snagging in his hair. It was a tight fit, but he managed it. Metal creaked as the new weight was introduced.  


“I’ve got a pulse,” Porthos told him. Aramis nodded, already checking d’Artagnan over more thoroughly. Whether it was the noise or the movement, d’Artagnan started to stir.  


“D'Artagnan?” Aramis asked. “Can you hear me?”  


Their youngest groaned. “‘Mis?”  


“Yeah, it’s me,” Aramis agreed. He had his paramedic voice on, falsely calm. “What hurts?”  


“What?” D’Artagnan raised one hand to try to pull at the seat belt, but Aramis gently removed it.  


“Ok, don’t worry about it. We’ll get you out.”  


“Legs are stuck,” d’Artagnan mumbled. He had his eyes open now, but he wasn’t focusing on anything. The blood from the cut on his forehead had dried on the side of his face. He looked awful. Porthos glanced down and saw that the dashboard had crumpled with the front end of the truck, pinning him in his seat. That was going to make things even more interesting.  


“Emergency services are on their way,” Athos said from where he was hanging on to the bumper of the truck. Porthos looked up at him. “How’s he doing?”  


“He’s awake,” Porthos said, glancing at where Aramis was trying to get d’Artagnan to focus. “Other than that, not sure.”  


“Ok,” said Athos. “I’m going up to the road to make sure they can find us. The reception is better up there.”  


Porthos nodded even as Athos was already making his way back to the top, pulling himself along on trees. From down here it was easier to see the path the truck had cleared on the way down.  


“Porthos,” d’Artagnan said. He turned back to see the younger man looking at him.  


“Hey,” he said. “How you doing?”  


D’Artagnan ignored the question. “Where’s Athos?”  


“Just up at the road,” Porthos assured him. “Making sure they knew where to find us so we can get you out of here.”  


D’Artagnan hummed, closing his eyes again. He seemed disappointed. Porthos exchanged a glance with Aramis.  


“Eyes open, d’Artagnan,” Aramis said, prodding him. “What happened?”  


D’Artagnan opened his eyes with a monumental effort. “Deer,” he said. “Tried to miss it. Can’t get the seatbelt off.”  


“Yeah it’s pretty stuck,” Aramis agreed. “We’ll let someone else take care of that.” They could probably cut it, but right now it was supporting him so he didn’t fall into the steering wheel. The two of them tried to keep him talking until the distant sirens became not so distant and the firefighters and paramedics showed up. Then Porthos had to step back to give them access. Aramis was asked politely but firmly to move out of the way, and he did so reluctantly. There was a great deal of muttering among the firefighters. Porthos guessed it was about how to get d’Artagnan out of the truck, because there was no way that any other vehicle was going to get down to him.  


Athos had joined them as soon as he had explained the situation to the newcomers. There wasn’t much they could do now except wait and see how they could help. One of the firefighters came over to where the three of them were standing.  


“Does one of you want to go in and stay with him while we remove the branch and the windshield?” he asked.  


“I’ll go,” Aramis said, glancing at the two of them. Porthos wouldn’t fit, and Athos got claustrophobic. That didn’t mean they were happy about it. Aramis climbed back into the truck and someone passed him a heavy, flame resistant blanket which he pulled over him and d’Artagnan.  


“This is cozy,” he said. “Just like making a blanket fort in the living room.”  


“Rather have a tree house,” d’Artagnan said. He was more aware now, thankfully. He still looked like a mess, but Aramis had overheard the paramedics relaying information to one another, and other than bruises, a concussion, and a broken collarbone, he seemed to be mostly alright. They would find out for sure soon.  


“Sorry to tell you this, but they’re taking away your treehouse,” Aramis shot back. Outside a saw started up. The plan was to cut the branch near the tree and then pull it and the windshield off. Then they could see about getting d’Artagnan unstuck.  


“They’re better outside anyway,” d’Artagnan said. They both winced as the saw started up a few feet away, drowning out all other noises. If it made Aramis’ head hurt, he couldn’t imagine how d’Artagnan felt about it.  


The saw stopped for a minute so the firemen could decide how to proceed.  


“Tell him I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan said.  


“I don’t know that you’re the one that needs to do the apologizing,” Aramis said, curling hi fingers tighter around the edge of the blanket, “And anything you want to tell him you can do it yourself. You’ll be out of here in no time.”  


“Feels like a long time.”  


Aramis frowned. Was he slurring more than before? It was hard to tell, with all the noise. The saw had started up again. He hoped they were almost done. Almost as soon as he had thought it, there was a loud voice giving directions and glass crackled behind them—presumably the windshield being removed.  


“You can come out now,” someone told him, tugging on the edge of the blanket. Aramis reluctantly climbed out of the way. It would go faster, now that the major obstacles were out of the way, but he was afraid to leave d’Artagnan by himself. The others were standing nearby, and he went to join them.  


“How is he?” Porthos asked.  


“He’ll be alright,” Aramis said. Hopefully he wasn’t just trying to convince himself of that. “Wanted me to apologize to Athos for him.”  


“What?” Athos said, frowning. “Why? I’m the one who should be apologizing.”  


“That’s what I said,” Aramis said dryly. “You two can sort it out later.”  


There was a shriek of metal as the hood of the truck was peeled away, and a crack as the dash was removed. Aramis winced. There would be no salvaging the truck. Then the paramedics were moving, swarming like ants.  


“Get up the hill,” Aramis said, shoving at Athos’ shoulder. “Someone should ride with him, and you need to be ready to go.”  


“Are you sure—” Athos started.  


“Athos. Now.” Porthos almost growled. Athos squared his shoulders and started up the incline without another word.  


“The two of them are going to be the death of me,” Aramis remarked.  


“Nah,” Porthos scoffed. “They just make life interesting.


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos spotted Athos immediately as they entered the mostly empty waiting room. He wasn’t to the point of pacing, but he was standing with his arms crossed, like he couldn’t bear to sit down to wait.  


“Any news?” Porthos asked. Athos looked up, attempting a smile.  


“His doctor said he would be alright. Broken ribs, fractured collar bone, a concussion. Plenty of bruises. Nothing more serious than that, though. They took him for x-rays just to make sure.”  


Porthos let out a breath, and Aramis leaned against his arm for a moment before straightening up again.  


“We should let Constance know,” Aramis said.  


“I already talked to her,” Athos said, holding up his phone. “And Treville, briefly.”  


The nurse chose that moment to appear. “You can come and see him now,” she said. She looked at Aramis and Porthos. “More family?”  


“Yes,” Porthos said, giving her his most winning smile, which she returned. She led them to a room where d’Artagnan was laying on a bed, dressed in a hospital gown. His arm was in a sling, and there were butterfly bandaids on the cut on his forehead, as well as some impressive bruising. He broke off mid-sentence when they entered, relief flashing across his face. Porthos was immensely reassured that he seemed to be much more coherent than earlier. The doctor turned to greet them.  


“Ah,” he said. “The promised friends.”  


“Pardon?” Athos said, raising an eyebrow.  


“We’d like to keep him overnight,” the doctor said, apparently oblivious to the look he was being given, “but there has been some discussion about it.”  


Porthos decided that meant that d’Artagnan had argued him to a standstill. Another encouraging sign, although he almost certainly wasn’t going to win this one.  


The doctor continued: “It’ll at least be a couple of hours, until we make sure he’s hydrated and there’s no further effects from the exposure. A nurse will come in to check periodically. You’re welcome to stay until he’s released.”  


“Thank you,” said Porthos. The doctor left. There was silence, for a moment.  


“Hey,” said d’Artagnan.  


“Hey yourself,” Porthos said, huffing in amusement.  


“I think you shaved five years off my lifespan,” Aramis said, dropping into a chair beside the bed. Closer to the monitors that were hooked up because he was almost certainly keeping an eye on them, but he’d never admit it.  


“Sorry about that.” D’Artagnan shifted, and grimaced when the movement jostled his injuries.  


“Just bad luck,” Porthos assured him. “It wasn’t your fault.”  


“No,” Athos said quietly, “it was mine.”  


All three of them turned to look at him. Aramis met Porthos’ eyes, asking silently if they should leave. Porthos gace a slight shake of his head and tried his best to fade into the background.  


“No it wasn’t,” d’Artagnan said. He finally looked up, and Porthos was comforted by the stubborn set of his jaw. He’d told Athos that the boy would forgive him, and now he was vindicated by d’Artagnan defending Athos, even from himself.  


“But—” Athos started.  


“I’m not saying what you said was fair,” d’Artagnan said, “although I have a feeling you’ve already been told that. But I’m the one who drove out that way, and unless there’s something I don’t know, no one could have predicted that deer.” He stopped, staring expectantly.  


“Still,” said Athos, “I owe you an apology.”  


“Accepted,” d’Artagnan said. “Now when can I go home?”  


Porthos couldn’t hide his snort. Typical. Athos seemed to remember that other people were in the room. He raised an eyebrow.  


“You just heard the doctor say that it would be at least a couple of hours.”  


“I want a second opinion,” d’Artagnan told him.  


“You can have mine,” Aramis said. “You’re not going anywhere for the moment.”  


Porthos looked down at his phone when it vibrated and spent a few minutes convincing Constance that d’Artagnan was really fine, and to wait until they had gotten him home before visiting. He snapped a surreptitious picture of d’Artagnan while he was talking to Athos and sent it to her as proof. Aramis watched him take it and tilted his head in a silent question. Porthos held up his phone so he could see Constance’s name on the screen.  


“I don’t suppose there’s any chance my truck made it through this?” d’Artagnan asked. Porthos grimaced.  


“Afraid not,” he said, thinking of the crushed metal and the shriek of the hood when emergency services had pried it away.  


D’Artagnan leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. “Damn it.”  
Porthos tried to gauge how upset he was about it, but it was hard. He knew the truck had been his father’s, but wasn’t sure how much sentimental value was attached to it.  


“Now maybe I can talk you into something that seats more than two people,” Aramis interjected. “Much more practical.”  


“Absolutely not,” said d’Artagnan. “Pickups are much more practical, or don’t you remember that I helped you haul all your furniture when you moved?”  


Aramis opened his mouth to retort, but thought better of it. “Touche.”  


They debated the merits of different vehicles for awhile, but d’Artagnan dozed off when the nurse gave him another dose of pain medication. Athos slumped in his chair. Porthos looked around. They all looked exhausted. It hadn’t been all that long since they had realized something was wrong, but it felt like years. And anyway, it went deeper than that. Recent events hadn’t been easy on any of them.  


“I can hear you thinking,” Aramis said, ostensibly to the room at large, but specifically at Athos. “Stop it.”  


“I’ll work on it,” Athos said. 

*****

It was almost full dark by the time that they released d’Artagnan back into the wild. His doctor hinted at him staying overnight, but d’Artagnan ignored those hints with a precision he must have learned from Athos. Porthos figured he would rest better at home anyway, and there were better chairs there. That part of his reasoning was purely selfish; hospital chairs always made his bones ache.  


“What are you doing?” d’Artagnan asked as he hobbled into his apartment with the three of them following. Porthos suspected the only reason he was able to move right then was the pain medication and pure determination. All bets were off as to tomorrow.  


“You have a concussion,” Aramis said. “You’re supposed to be monitored.”  


“By three people?” d’Artagnan asked, bemused.  


“The more the merrier,” Aramis said. Then he settled himself in the recliner decisively. Porthos busied himself making tea and raiding the fridge for anything interesting, and Athos...hovered. It wasn’t normal hovering, with a billion questions and the waving of hands and the gnashing of teeth. He just...watched.  


“What are you making?” d’Artagnan asked Porthos, leaning against the kitchen counter. He did that a lot when he was injured or sick, leaning against things and refusing to sit down until he had to. Maybe he knew that he wouldn’t want to get back up.  


“Toast,” Porthos said.  


“Why?”  


“Because you need to eat something. Also, because you’re bad at grocery shopping.”  


“I am not,” d’Artagnan said. He looked mildly offended. “I just haven’t had a chance in a while.”  


“Excuses,” Porthos told him. The toast popped up. He slid it on a plate but did not hand it over. “Go sit down first.” He could play the game too. D’Artagnan looked like he wanted to protest, but just shrugged and moved over to the couch instead, dropping ungracefully down. Porthos surrendered the toast and a glass of water. Then he took the other chair, and left the open half of the couch to Athos.  


Athos gave him a knowing look, but took the seat with no complaints. Twenty minutes later d’Artagnan was asleep on his shoulder.  


“Told you it would turn out alright,” Porthos said.  


“Yes,” said Athos. “You did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. I would love some prompts/headcanons/ideas for some more one shots!


End file.
